


Abandon All

by devovere



Series: Intimacies [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angry Warrior speech, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Episode: s02e25 Resolutions, F/M, Kathryn miscalculates, Massage, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-31 22:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13984722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devovere/pseuds/devovere
Summary: Kathryn’s stream-of-consciousness thoughts during the neck rub, the Angry Warrior speech, and beyond the fade to black.





	Abandon All

**Author's Note:**

> Another Voyager-book-club-inspired fic, triggered this time by gratuitous Chakotay hand porn. Members assure me that we can never have too much Resolutions smut. Feel free to watch and obsessively rewatch the relevant scenes for details mentioned here; I certainly did so. 
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to LittleObsessions for generous beta-reading and all-around writing support.

“Well, that’s one way of letting go.”

You know lots of ways of letting go. You just never use them. Your first impulse is always to hang on, to persevere, to endure, to control. Even when you indulge yourself -- a bath, a holonovel, a hand on his chest -- you are implementing a plan, rationing your pleasures to keep yourself in check. Letting go means, first and foremost, abandoning the plan. And you have -- shall we say -- abandonment issues. So you do not, in point of fact, let go. Not even when you let him think that’s what you’re doing. Not even when you tell yourself it’s time, it’s okay now, there’s nothing more to be done. Because you don’t believe that, still. You can’t afford to.

Still, you must have abandoned some restraint, some measure of common sense, to complain in his hearing about your knots getting knots and _not_ have thought it would lead to this: his large hands delicately, reverently lifting your long hair to move it aside, then resting warm and solid on your shoulders. And if there were any doubt as to your intention in permitting this, then your own hand’s stubborn delay in dropping away -- the slow spread and drag of your fingers through his as he begins to knead your muscles -- betrays your deep need at this hour for touch, for connection, for letting go.

Despite how often you’ve touched him in passing, as gesture, you’ve somehow always ignored how slight your build is relative to his -- until now, as he lays hands on you. On _Voyager_ , on away missions, he would pace you, one step behind and to your left, and it always felt like having a brick wall at your back, protection personified. Now his bulk and strength are again behind you, but oh, it’s different. He’s not backing you up to confront an enemy or pursue your shared mission. You have become his mission; he is focused solely on your person, your bodily plaints and needs and -- _ohhhh, that feels good, so good, yessss_.

He mentions his mother and you think he means to put you at ease, remove any hint of seduction. It has the opposite effect. Thinking of him as a boy with a mother, with a family in a home, adds more depth and personal history than you could already handle in your erstwhile first officer, now permanent roommate, object of fantasy and temptation. _Just give him puppies and a baby and call it done_ , you think wildly, and feel your pupils dilate behind your closed eyelids.

You are sure he can feel your heart rate increasing, must sense the heat his massage is generating, not only in neck and shoulders but all down your spine, low in your belly, in secret hidden places you try never to think of in his presence but now he’s never far enough away to be safely out of mind. Those partitions on your sleeping spaces are a sick joke but he’s long since taken up residence in your brain and the walls you’d built there to keep him contained are crumbling fast and -- _aaahhhh yes, right there, like that_ \-- another knot loosens and if he undoes you any further you dread what might unravel altogether but _letting go_ calls to you more strongly the longer he does this and

_If you just reached up and placed your hands on his. Just placed them there, and tipped your head to the left. He would stop looking at your hair and would look at the side of your neck, below your ear, and you would let out a breath and take it back in and hold his hands steady against you as he bends that little bit further to brush his lips against your bare skin, offered up to him like a delicacy to be tasted, savored. And he would feel you tremble and your hands would tighten over his and slowly, slowly pull them down, slowly drag his thumbs across your collarbone and further down to the swell of your breasts. And you would feel him tremble and the silence would be so heavy all around you both, the night sounds swelling as your breathing quickens and ohhhh the warmth of his hands as your nipples harden under his palms and his lips chase your shiver from your neck to your jawline and you know he’s praying, not for you to let him keep going but for control, to make it good for you, for whatever pleasure you’ll permit yourself to be true and unsullied by guilt or regret._

_And if you made one of those rash decisions you’re so good at, swinging your body around to face him, you could reach up to clasp your hands behind his neck and in the same motion rise to bring your mouth to his. And his gasp would draw breath from your own lungs and you would greedily press more of yourself into him, onto him, wrapping all of him you could reach into your embrace with little greedy whimpers of need coming from your throat as he groans and shudders and pulls you against him harder, still harder, his hands large on your back burning through your nightgown._

_And you wouldn’t need to feel him, risen hot and hard against your belly, to break the kiss, panting hard, and, with a wicked glint in your eye, bring one hand from his hair to his throat and slide your fingers down along his bare skin to the very bottom of that slit in his neckline. You would suddenly hook your fingers into the cloth of his tunic and pull him along with you as you kick the chair out of your way and reach back with your other hand and blindly sweep PADDs and mugs and dinner plate aside then hoist yourself onto the table and pull him right along between your parted knees._

_And he wouldn’t need help to find your waist, wrapping his large, skillful hands around your lower body, his thumbs massaging now in the crease of your hips, hitching your nightgown up your legs, letting them spread ever wider as he presses forward, his hot mouth laving your throat and moving lower until you lean back on your arms and arch your chest toward him, practically begging without words for him to -- yes, fuck, yes-- his lips at last reaching the peak of one breast and closing around a nipple, sucking through the fabric and grazing his teeth lightly in a way that zings straight through your body to all twenty fingers and toes and rebounds directly in twenty simultaneous electric jolts to your clit._

_And then, you’re sure, your voice crying out with guttural need would act on him like gravity, pulling him down to cover your body with his own, his mouth plundering yours, his elbows now braced against the table to support his weight as you grab the hem of his shirt and drag it up, as you grope for the closures of his pants and wrestle and squirm to pull them down his hips._

_And he would growl to feel so much of you against his skin but still too much fabric in between you both for anyone’s satisfaction, and just that little glimmer of grounded reality, the logical need to shed clothing along with inhibitions, would spark enough rational thinking to make and execute a simple plan. He would stand up, panting, eyes black and hot, roaming your body as he strips, finishing the job you started. And he would stand before you, naked and unashamed, and pull you to your feet, lifting one wrist at a time to quickly undo the buttons holding your long sleeves closed. And then one hand would come gently under your chin, his warm gaze asking silently, hopefully, and you would nod and lift your chin and let him open your collar._

_And then you would place a palm in the middle of his chest, compelling him to step back, away, but before more than a fleeting doubt as to your intent could cross his face you would run your gaze down his proud strong body. You would lick your lips at the sight of his jutting cock, swallow, and drag your eyes back up to his face before bending to grasp the hem of your long nightgown. And then you would give him the show of his life as you teasingly lift, twist, turn, and shimmy your way out of that ironically, fruitlessly modest piece of sleepwear. And by the time you finished and stood nude before him he’d look dazed, like he’d been poleaxed in the boxing ring, until you put your hands on your hips and let the crooked half-smile you know he loves inquire as to his well-being. He would give an almost comical shake of his head, snapping out of reverie, and_

This image brings your own daydream crashing to a halt. Your eyes open as you realize you are still in your chair, still clothed, his hands still on your shoulders but no longer moving. _Oh god_ , you panic, wondering _did I moan? Did I say something?_ And you know whether or not your voice has revealed your thoughts he’s surely sensed something, felt you _letting go_ , else why would he have stopped _you fool how could you_ and you’re not sure if your target is yourself or him but the shame is acute and you have to get away now before -- before --

You stand and face him, desperately not noticing the shy longing hope on his face, wrestling your self-control back from the brink of abandon, throwing up walls of etiquette and formality to prop up your dissolving will.

“That’s much better, thank you,” you say brightly, your own hand betraying the simmering tension in your shoulders, in your whole body, and your thoughts race more quickly towards escape.

“Well,” and you feel yourself cringe awkwardly and _why won’t he stop looking at me_ but you force a steady casualness into your voice, as if you hadn’t just seconds ago been ascending toward climax merely from his hands on your shoulders and your own traitorous imagination. “I’m going to go to bed now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Sleep well, Kathryn,” and while he says it with the affable warmth that always conveys his unconditional regard, you know you are not imagining an undercurrent of frustrated need in his voice and bearing, and you fear what you see is just a reflection of the waves of desire you must be almost visibly emitting. You glance down to sever the feedback loop but it’s not enough and you still have to get away, now, urgently.

“Yes. You too.” But you can’t resist another glance at his dear face, so valiantly suppressing his desire and disappointment, and as you move with over-careful grace to your sleeping area your left hand betrays you yet again, grasping the partition edge as you pass as if to hold you there, as if to give you a second, a third chance to change your mind, to look back and wordlessly invite him into your room, your bed, your body, your solitude.

Your faltering will pulls through in the end, and you reach your bed alone, even if your eyes drift repeatedly to the translucent partition, to his shadowed form moving to sit again at the far table. You wait for your heart rate to return to normal, press the back of one cool hand against your flushed brow, thinking _Get a grip_ and _You’re acting like a teenager_ but you look again at the pearly white of the partition and freeze, feeling his eyes fixed back in your direction.

There is nothing teenaged about this.

You close your eyes, giving yourself a stern lecture. He is your dearest friend but that’s all the more reason to rein this in before anything more intimate can happen. You’ve spent almost two years by now seeing him every day without ever coming this close to a lapse in propriety. Surely it was more than your uniforms and the watchful eyes of your crew that kept things in check; the two of you were an unstoppable command team precisely _because_ together, you had everything needed for enduring excellence. And what had he always brought to your work? _His unflagging support for your decisions_. Even when he questioned your reasoning, it was only to strengthen and refine, never to defy.

There. That’s what is missing here. You simply need to go to him, explain your decision to continue on as friends, not lovers, and ask for his help in shoring up those boundaries. Helping you is what he always does; you’re as certain of his aid as you are of the planet’s rotation bringing the sun back into view come morning. _No sense in wasting time_ , you think, and _let’s nip this in the bud, shall we_ as you fold back the covers and rise, bare minutes after you’d bid him good night.  

You utter two sentences, ask him to help you “define parameters … about us,” and then he stuns you into silence by refusing.

He tells you no.

No, he won’t play along, won’t pretend to set limits on what he feels for you, will not help you box him in, keep him at arm’s length. Then he goes even further, telling you in barely-veiled allegory of his own needs and vulnerability. His devotion, freely given, never earned, will not see reason, will not pull back or be kept in check. At this, perhaps your most cowardly moment, he calls you brave. But he is the one with the courage to push back at last, to withstand your call to withdraw. He presses the one advantage he possesses, the slippery slope of your letting go, and he gives no quarter.

He rests, patiently waiting for your choice: anger, invitation, retreat. A tear rolls down your face as the palm of your left hand opens to him like a flower to the sun. He mirrors you, laces his long fingers into yours, thumb stroking warm and gentle, and the universe goes still in the space of two heartbeats but, bafflingly, does not shatter.

The only thing that crumbles is the fortress around your heart. You feel it collapse behind your sternum, breath hitching, and wonder with awe if it made a noise, if he knows he has breached a decade of defenses with a parable of a promise.

As the dust settles a flare is lit anew within you and it calls him like a moth to flame. You surge up as one, everything between your bodies an obstacle to be summarily surmounted, mouths crashing together, hands everywhere, clothing torn away and flung aside. The strength of his arms and back and thighs as he lifts and carries you to his bed reveals the power vested in his physical form, the stamina with which he is ready and eager to worship your body tonight.

And so, and so, your joining finally begins, heated skin and lips, voices and fingers, caressing, probing, gasping, moaning, crying out with wordless abandon. He tries, he tries to hold you off, to see to your pleasure first with tongue and fingers but you won’t be diverted. “Later,” you gasp, as you grasp his hair with both hands and haul him roughly up your body. He would take his time, be sure you’re ready, but you know your mind and you know you’ve been dripping wet for him since the chair before you said goodnight and you are sure you will die if he doesn’t pierce you, penetrate you, fill you _now_ and the only way it seems possible to make him understand the urgency of your need is to hook a knee behind his and shove hard on his opposite shoulder while he’s off balance with a hand between your legs, and then he’s on his back and you’re straddling his hips, palms flat against his dear broad chest, holding him down as if you actually could, floating above him like helium, finding him to rub against your slickness, adjusting the angle of your hips. And then you catch his cock at your opening and start to sink down, encompassing, engulfing him. He groans your name once, gripping your hips with a desperation you have never before seen him express, and finally gives in and thrusts up to meet you, the breath from your lungs and his expelled together in startlement, in triumph, overwhelmed by sensation, no time to pause and savor anything as you rush headlong toward completion.

A minute, maximum, of falling almost apart and pounding furiously back together, and then you come more upright, your hands leaving his body to cover his at your breasts, and you don’t want to look away from his beautiful face, grimacing with good feeling and need and the fear of finishing first, but your own rising ecstasy drags your head back and your eyes closed, and your mouth drops open as you clench hard around his driving cock. You stutter to a stop, rigid and arched backward, crying out as your orgasm seizes you in tight waves of pulsing white-hot pleasure. And as you still, shuddering, he surges to a sitting position, arms fast around your waist and back, crushing you to him, still thrusting, rolling hard against your inflamed flesh, again, again, again. The silence as your own voice dies away is filled by his sobbing your name, three times, and then a short phrase in a language that has no meaning to you save that it is his, his true tongue, dragged up from the depths of his being as he gives himself to you utterly.

You sit there on his bed, knotted together, sweat-slicked skin sliding as you both breathe hard. Your head falls back into his open hands and he is murmuring over your heart, sweet nothings that are everything in this moment of repletion, of relief. You realize your own arms and hands are trapped between your two torsos, and you wiggle some fingers, experimenting, rediscovering how your body works in the aftermath of abandon. He feels the nudge and then chuckles to see how your head rolls on your neck as you try to lift it, relaxed to the point of stupor. Gently, carefully, he pulls you down to lie on top of him, and it is in this position that you feel him soften and slip from your body, warm juices flowing in his wake.

After a time, his fingertips, tracing undefined patterns against the skin of your lower back, pause in their work, as if granting a moment of silence to the gravity of what has just passed between you, as if bracing himself for what you might say next.

You regain sufficient motor control to lift your head slightly, chin on his left pectoral muscle, and find his dark eyes gazing down into yours with tenderness, gratitude, joy. “Hey,” you say, and your left hand, acting out a fantasy, finds with one finger the curve of his lower lip, smoothing over it with fascination.

He smiles, slowly, until his dimples appear and your heart feels it will burst. Then a sheepish look takes him and you feel him shrug in tentative apology. “I … forgot about foreplay?”

You find a true laugh starting low in your belly and let it take you, shaking your body, his body, the very bed that supports your joined weight. “Silly man. Don’t you remember?”

His laughter mingles with yours though he still isn’t sure what you mean. “Not the legend, surely?” And you roll your eyes, helpless mirth forcing tears from them. _Endorphins_ , you think, as if science could ever suffice to explain the giddiness rising like champagne bubbles in your veins, the glow at your core.

“No, not that. The neck rub.”

And he groans as if at a bad joke, his head falling back against the mattress, hands coming up your body to caress again your shoulders, where it all began.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. I invite and appreciate feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * <3 as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta) may be a useful resource for some. 
> 
> I reply to comments. That means you can expect me to reply to your comment, eventually and barring unforeseen circumstances. (Once in a while I miss or don't receive a notification, for example.) 
> 
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